It’s been a long time since I’ve typed the following sentence:
I wish I could write like this:
“I like my macaroni and cheese the way I like my women and my orange popsicles: soft, rich and orange. If at all possible, it will also come with a wooden stick that has a joke written on it.
“The first time I had macaroni and cheese was during my first sleepover, and the finer rules were lost on me. When should I take off my outer layer of trousers? Who was to massage Vicks Vapor Rub into my chest? Who was to check the closet for homeless people? And into which outlet would my Limoges nightlight be plugged? My questions remained largely unanswered, however, because after eating mac & cheese and watching Leprechaun parts I and III, I vomited into my sleeping bag and had to call my parents. When a food makes you throw up like that, usually you don’t want it ever again, but not so for me. The same holds true for Malibu rum and breast milk.”
Somehow I don’t think they’ll be hiring Lew Rockwell for this gig…
